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POEMS TO lANTHE 

by 

Walter Savage Landor 



^_^rran^ed, with an Introduction and Notes, by 

FiNLEY M. K. Foster, Ph. D. 

C^ssociate Professor of English in 
■^e University of Delaware 



Published by 

•gfe Craftsmen qf Kells 

Newark, Delaware 
MDCCCCXXII 



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(^^cknow^ledgment 

The editor wishes to thank the Macmillan Com- 
pany for their permission to print the following 
material from publications of which they hold the 
copyright : 

From Letters and Unpublished Writings of 
Walter Savage Landor edited by Stephen Wheeler : 

The portrait of lanthe. 

ii. "Can not you make the name of Jane 

xxxvii. Now thou art gone, tho' not gone far 

viii. Poplar ! I will not write upon thy rind 

XV. Bid my bosom cease to grieve 

Ixxv. If I am proud, you surely know 

i. To thee, Maria, now within thy tomb 

Ixxxii. Dreamer I ever was by night and day 

Ixxxvii. The violets of thine eyes are faded 

Ixxxviii. For me you wish you could retain 

From Life of Landor by Sidney Colvin (English 
Men of Letters Series) : 

iii. Sometimes, as boys will do, I play'd at love 



Contents 

Introduction 

FIRST LINES 

Ah! could I think there's nought of ill 

All tender thoughts that e'er possest 

Along this coast I led the vacant hours 

Ask me not, a voice severe 

As round the parting ray the busy motes 

A time will come when absence, grief, and years 

Away my verse; and never fear 



"Can not you make my name of Jane 
Circe, who bore the diadem 
Clifton ! in vain thy varied scenes invite 
Come back, ye Smiles, that late forsook 
Could but the dream of night return by day 

Darling shell, where hast thou been 
"Do you remember me? or are you proud?" 
Dreamer I ever was by night and day 
Dull is my verse: not even thou 

Flow, precious tears! thus shall my rival know 
For me you wish you could retain 
From heaven descend two gifts alone 

Go, sole companion of a joyless bed 



Ixxxii 
Ixxxv 



lanthe! you are call'd to cross the sea 

I can not tell, not I, why she 

I dare not trust my pen, it trembles so 

I draw with trembling hand my doubtful lot 

If I am proud, you surely know 

If mutable is she I love 

I held her hand, the pledge of bliss 

I love to hear that men are bound 

I often ask upon whose arm she leans 

I sadden while I view again 

It often comes into my head 

I wonder not that youth r 



Many may yet recall the hours 
Maria! I have said adieu 
Mild is the parting year, and sweet 
Mine fall, and yet a tear of hers 



No, my own love of other years! 

No, thou hast never griev'd, but I griev'd too 

Now thou art gone, tho' not gone far 

O fond, but fickle and untrue 
One pansy, one, she bore beneath her breast 
On the smooth brow and clustering hair 
thou whose happy pencil strays 

Past ruin'd Ilion Helen lives 

Pleasure! why thus desert the heart 

Poplar! I will not write upon thy rind 

Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak 

Pursuits! alas, I now have none 



Iviii 
Ixix 
xliii 



Say ye that years roll on and ne'er return? 
She I love (alas in vain!) 
She leads in solitude her youthful hours 
Silent, you say, I'm grown of late 
So late removed from him she swore 
Sometimes, as boys will do, I play'd at love 
Soon as lanthe's lip I prest 
Soon, O lanthe ! life is o'er 

Tears, and tears only, are these eyes that late 

Tears! are they tears indeed? 

Thank Heaven, lanthe, once again 

The heart you cherish can not change 

There are some tears we would not wish to dry 

There are some wishes that may start 

There is a flower I wish to wear 

These are the sights I love to see 

The violets of thine eyes are faded 

Thou hast not rais'd, lanthe, such desire 

To thee, Maria, now within thy tomb 

Versailles! Versailles! thou shalt not keep 

Well I remember how you smiled 

We once were happier; true; but were 

We will not argue, if you say 

Where alders rise up dark and dense 

Where is my heart, perfidious boy 

While the winds whistle round my cheerless room 

While you, my love, are by 

Will you not come, my little girl! 

Years, many parti-colour'd years 

Yes, we shall meet (I knew we should) again 

Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass 

You see the worst of love, but not the best 

You smiled, you spoke, and I believed 

You tell me I must come again 






Ixxxvii 



Ixxx 



qL 



Introduction 



At an unknown date between the years 1795 and 
1798 Walter Savage Landor met Sophia Jane Swift 
at Clifton in South Wales. To her, according to the 
story told in Nos. ii and iii of this collection, Landor 
gave the name lanthe. Their friendship, which 
ripened into love on Landor's part at least, endured 
for the remainder of their lives. Whether or not 
Landor seriously proposed marriage is not known. If 
he did, his suit was rejected; for in 1803 lanthe 
married her cousin Godwin Swifte. During the next 
twenty-six years Landor dropped out of lanthe's life. 
In 1816, Swifte having died in 1814, lanthe married 
Count Lepelletier de Molande, a Norman nobleman 
who had emigrated to England. Eleven years later 
she was again a widow. In the meanwhile Landor had 
married and had established himself in a villa near 
Florence. To Florence went lanthe and her children 
in 1829. The romance of their second meeting is por- 
trayed in No. Ixxiv, a meeting which renewed their 
previous friendship and rejuvenated Landor's love for 
for her. In 1832 Landor returned her visit by spend- 
ing a few days at her home in Brighton. Throughout 
these years she had many suitors for her hand, among 
them the Due de Luxemburg ; but she would have none 
of them. During the latter part of lanthe's life, 
Landor saw her at intervals at Bath; for he was at 
this time separated from his family. However, the 
old intimacy was never renewed, and Landor was a 
worshipper from afar. Her death at Versailles in the 
latter part of July, 1851, brought from Landor one of 
the most poignantly sorrowful lyrics in all English 
poetry. 



The poems addressed to lanthe fall into three dis- 
tinct groups: first, those written during the time of 
Lander's first love for lanthe and of his dejection at 
the failure of his suit (i - Ixxiii) ; second, those written 
to lanthe in after years (Ixxiv - Ixxxviii) ; third, those 
written upon lanthe's death (Ixxxix - xci). 

The love story as told in the poems seems to show 
that at the outset Landor received great encourage- 
ment and had some reason to believe his affection was 
returned. Then followed a visit by lanthe across "the 
sea"; where or for what purpose we do not know. 
During this time Landor anxiously awaited her re- 
turn, only to find when she did come back, that her 
heart had been bestowed elsewhere. The poems 
written after this event portray how keenly he felt the 
loss of one he loved so well. In time his grief abated 
and he was able to view those years of love more 
placidly. 

The poems written to lanthe after 1829 show 
that the old love had reawakened to burn for the re- 
mainder of his life in a sober, steady flame, a love not 
passionate but calm and reflecting. For him lanthe 
had lost none of her charm. His poems to her daughter 
are but opportunities to cast a reflected glory upon 
her. His devotion is that of the man who wrote 
Pericles and Aspasia. 

The last few poems which he wrote upon the 
death of lanthe make a fitting ending to this love of 
Landor's which had endured for fifty years and more. 
They serve to show that the earlier poems, expressed 
as they sometimes were with the crudeness of youth 
and affectations learned from earlier poets, were 
based on no mere flirtation. Landor felt her death 
deeply and genuinely mourned her passing; but he 
found his consolation in the thought that he had given 
her immortality among mortals : 

One name, lanthe, shall not die. 

This, in brief, is the record of the spiritual story 
of Landor and lanthe. Beginning with all the ve- 



hemence of youthful passion, it developed gradually 
into Platonic devotion which, on the part of Landor at 
all events, was as genuine as the great philosopher 
could have desired. 



This little volume is the first attempt to bring to- 
gether and arrange the poems written to lanthe. In 
1831 Landor published as part of a volume of poems 
thirty-one lyrics which he specifically called Poems 
Addressed to lanthe. In the notes I have indicated 
which poems these are. In addition to these I have 
tried to include all the poems which Landor wrote in 
which the name lanthe appears. Nine more were 
added from a collection of hitherto unpublished writ- 
ings of Landor which Mr. Stephen Wheeler published 
in 1897 ; and one was taken from Mr. Sidney Colvin's 
Life of Landor. The remaining thirty-three poems 
were found in the poet's works and are included 
wholly on the basis of interpretation. 

The inclusion of the last group is, of course, the 
most difficult to defend. For seven of them I have the 
assistance of Mr. Colvin's interpretation in maintain- 
ing their presence. For the remainder I can only plead 
that internal evidence seems to point to their having 
been written in connection with the lanthe story. 
Date of publication is of no importance, for some of 
the earliest poems Landor published in his last vol- 
umes. Consequently, with a very real knowledge of 
the hazards of internal evidence and implied interpre- 
tation, and with the hope that later studies will verify 
my conclusions with facts, I have ventured to include 
them. 

I have arranged the poems in an order which I 
think will make them tell their own story. Here again 
the failure of Landor to connect his poems to lanthe 
in any particular manner, has added to the burden of 
risk for the editor. By placing them in what seems to 
be a proper chronological order and by matching like 
content with like content, I have made an arrangement 



which appears plausible. For this reason I have 
broken up the little collection of thirty-one which 
Landor published as a unit and placed them in their 
proper places in this larger edition. They all, with 
one exception, fall among the poems which deal with 
the early years and his first love. The exception is the 
last poem in this book. As Landor placed it last in 
his group, so I have placed it last in this collection ; for 
it fits its position admirably. 

In the last analysis, although an editor may do 
much for an author by logical arrangement and in- 
telligent annotation, whatever of truth and beauty is 
present in the work is the author's, and on him its 
merit depends. Landor has immortalized lanthe, but 
in the portrayal of his love he has also memorialized 
himself forever. 



The touch sf Love dispels the gloom 
Of life, and animates the tomb; 
But never let it idly flare 
On gazers in the open air, 
Nor turn it quite aw^ay from one 
To whom it serves for moon and sun. 
And who alike in night and day 
Without it could not find his way. 



iTaiilflfi""'tiir""MiM 



POEMS TO lANTHE 



Written at sundry times 
by 

Walter Savage Landor 



L 



POEMS TO lANTHE 



Away my verse; and never fear, 

As men before such beauty do; 
On you she will not look severe, 

She will not turn her eyes from you. 
Some happier graces could I lend 

That in her memory you should live. 
Some little blemishes might blend, 

For it would please her to forgive. 



lanthe's Name 

'Cannot you make my name of Jane 
Sound pleasanter? Now try again,' 
Said she. At once I thought about 
The matter, and at last cut out 
A letter from Greek alphabet. 
And had it, as I thought, well set; 
'Twas then 'lanthe.' Soon there came 
A smart ring'd robber with a claim, 
You find it in his wardrobe stil. 
More he would have, but never will. 



Sometimes, as boys will do, I play'd at love, 
Nor fear'd cold weather, nor withdrew in hot; 
And two who were my playmates at that hour, 
Hearing me call'd a poet, in some doubt 
Challenged me to adapt their namnes to song, 
lone was the first ; her namie is heard 
Among the hills of Cambria, north and south, 
But there of shorter stature, like herself; 
I placed a comedy vowel at its close, 
And drove an ugly sibilant away. 



lanthe, who came later, smiled and said, 

I have two names and will be praised in both; 

Sophia is not quite enough for me, 

And you have simply named it, and but once. 

Now call the other up — 

I went, and planted in a fresh parterre 
lanthe ; it was blooming, when a youth 
Leapt o'er the hedge, and snatching at the stem 
Broke off the label from my favourite flower, 
And stuck it on a sorrier of his own. 



Page 
Two 



Thou hast not rais'd, lanthe, such desire 

In any breast as thou hast rais'd in mine. 
No wandering meteor now, no msu'shy fire, 

Leads on my steps, but lofty, but divine : 
And, if thou chillest me, as chill thou dost 

When I approach too near, too boldly gaze. 
So chills the blushing morn, so chills the host 

Of vernal stars, with light more chaste than day's. 



Darling shell, where hast thou been. 
West or East? or heard or seen? 
From what pastimes art thou come? 
Can we make amends at home? 

Whether thou hast tuned the dance 

To the maids of ocean 
Know I not; but Ignorance 

Never hurts Devotion. 

This I know, lanthe's shell, 
I must ever love thee well, 
Tho' too little to resound 
While the Nereids dance around: 

For, of all the shells that are. 
Thou art sure the brightest; 

Thou, Ismthe's infant care. 
Most these eyes delightest. 

To thy early aid she owes 
Teeth like budding snowdrop rows : 
And what other shell can say 
On her bosom once it lay? 

That which into Cyprus bore 
Venus from her native sea, 

(Pride of shells!) was never more 
Dear to her than thou to me. 



Past ruin'd Ilion Helen lives, 
Alcestis rises from the shades; 

Verse calls them forth; 'tis verse that gives 
Immortal youth to mortal maids. 

Soon shall Oblivion's deepening veil 
Hide all the peopled hills you see, 

The gay, the proud, while lovers hail 
These many summers you and me. 

The tear for fading beauty check, 
For passing glory cease to sigh, 

One form shall rise above the wreck, 
One name, lanthe, shall not die. 



From heaven descend two gifts alone; 
The graceful line's eternal zone 

And Beauty, that too soon must die. 
Exposed and lonely Genius stands. 
Like Memnon in the Egyptian sands, 

At whom barbarian javelins fly. 

For mutual succour heaven designed 
The lovely form and vigorous mind 

To seek each other and unite. 
Genius ! thy wing shall beat down Hate, 
And Beauty tell her fears at Fate 

Until her rescuer met her sight. 



Soon, O lanthe! life is o'er. 

And sooner beauty's heavenly smile: 
Grant only (and I ask no more). 

Let love remain that little while. 



Page 

Four 



The heart you cherish can not change; 

The fancy, faint and fond, 
Has never more the wish to range 

Nor power to rise beyond. 



Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass. 
Cut down, and up again as blithe as ever; 

From you, lanthe, little troubles pass 
Like little ripples down a sunny river. 



Come back, ye Smiles, that late forsook 
Each breezy path auid ferny nook. 
Come Laughter, though the sage hath said 
Thou favourest most the thoughtless head: 
I blame thee not, howe'er inclin'd 
To love the vacant easy mind; 
But now am ready, may it please. 
That mine be vacant and at ease. 

Sweet children of celestial breed, 
Be ruled by me . . repress your speed. 
Laughter, though Momus gave thee birth, 
And said. My darling, stay on earth! 
Smiles, though from Venus you arise. 
And live for ever in the skies ! 
Softly ! and let not one descend 
But first alights upon my friend. 
When one upon her cheek appears, 
A thousand spring to life from hers; 
Death smites his disappointed urn. 
And spirit, pleasure, wit, return. 



To lanthe 
With Petrarca's Sonnets 

Behold what homage to his idol paid 
The tuneful suppliant of Valcluca's shade. 
His verses still the tender heart engage, 
They charm'd a rude, and please a polisht age: 
Some are to nature and to passion true, 
And all had been so, had he lived for you. 



My basil, to whose fragrance, from the breaist 
Of Venus, even the myrtle bends her head, 

Say that I broke upon thy sunny rest 

And dreams perhaps by quiet fancies fed, 

Not thoughtless nor in malice; the desire 

That courtly hands should take thee, prompted 
mine. 

His only daughter thus some country squire 

Sends to her town-bred cousins, spruce and fine : 

He looks for something . . can it then be grace? 

The want that wounds it, softens too his heart; 
The blushes leave his clear bald brow apace, 

And the stiff steed in beau-ded pride may start. 



It often comes into my head 

That we may dream when we are dead. 

But I am far from sure we do. 
O that it were so! then my rest 
Would be indeed among the blest; 

I should for ever dream of you. 



She I love (alas in vain!) 

Floats before my slumbering eyes: 
When she comes she lulls my pain, 

When she goes what pangs su-ise! 
Thou whom love, whom memory flies, 

Gentle Sleep! prolong thy reign! 
If even thus she soothe my sighs, 

Never let we wake again ! 



To My Watch 

Go, sole companion of a joyless bed. 
Nor drive the slumbers from this frantic head. 
Point not how slow malignant Time departs. 
How ill agree thy motion and my heau^'s. 
Why so averse, ye hours, to Cambria's coast? 
Why cannot sleep still hang o'er tresisures lost, 
And let me dream that, meeting on the way, 
lanthe chides, as once, my long delay ! 

"Ah, why this absence ! why, when men possess, 
Hold they the gift, but love the giver less ! 
Perhaps some rival I have lived to see. 
Or hear some other youth has cheums for me. 
No, in this bosom none shall ever share. 
Firm is, and tranquil be, your empire there ! 
If, wing'd with amorous fear, the unfetter'd slave 
Stole back for you the heart she rashly gave, 
O call it feeble, call it not untrue. . 
Its destination, though it fail'd, was you. 
So, to some distant ile, the unconscious dove 
Bears at her breeist the billet deau- to love. 
But drops, while viewless lies the happier scene. 
On some hard rock or desert beach between." 



Could but the dream of night return by day, 

And thus again the true lanthe say, 

"Altho' some other I should live to see 

As fond, no other can have charms for me. 

No, in this bosom none shall ever share. 

Firm is, and tranquil be, your empire there! 

If wing'd with amorous fear the unfetter'd slave 

Stole back the struggling heart she rashly gave, 

Weak, they may call it, weak, but not untrue; 

Its destination, though it fail'd, was you. 

So to some distant isle the unconscious dove 

Bears at her breast the billet dear to love. 

But drops, while viewless lies the happier scene, 

On some hard rock or desert beach between." 



I love to hear that men are bound 
By your enchanting links of sound: 
I love to hear that none rebel 
Against your beauty's silent spell. 
I know not whether I may bear 
To see it all, as well as hear; 
And never shall I clearly know 
Unless you nod and tell me so. 



These are the sights I love to see: 

I love to see siround 
Youths breathing haird on bended knee. 

Upon that holy ground 
My flowers have covered: all the while 

I stand above the rest; 
I feel within the angelic smile, 

I bless, and I am blest. 



Page 
Eight 



thou whose happy pencil strays 
Where I am calFd, nor dau-e to gaze, 

But lower my eye and check my tongue ; 
O, if thou valuest peaceful days, 
Pursue the ringlet's sunny maze. 

And dwell not on those lips too long. 
What mists athwart my temples fly, 
Now, touch by touch, Uiy fingers tie 

With torturing csu-e her graceful zone! 
For all that sparkles from her eye 

1 could not look while thou art by. 

Nor could I cease were I alone. 



Flow, precious tears ! thus shall my rival know 

For me, not him, ye flow. 
Stay, precious tears ! ah stay ! this jealous heart 

Would bid you flow apart. 
Lest he should see you rising o'er the brim, 

And hope you rise for him. 
Your secret cells, while he is present, keep, 

Nor, tho' I'm absent, weep. 



Will you not come, my little girl! 

What on this sand-hill cam I do? 
What, but around my finger twirl 

The sever'd lock I stole from you? 

Come, or the wanton wind shall have it. 
And every whispering breeze shall tell 

How, when you snatcht it back, you gave it. 
And pouted that you snatcht so well. 



While the winds whistle round my cheerless room, 
And the pale morning droops with winter's gloom; 
While indistinct lie rude and cultured lands, 
The ripening harvest and the hoary sands; 
Alone, and destitute of every page 
That fires the poet or informs the sage, 
Where shall my wishes, where my fancy, rove, 
Rest upon past or cherish promist love? 
Alcis ! the past I never can regain. 
Wishes may rise and tears my flow . . in vain. 
Fancy, that brings her in her earthly bloom. 
Throws barren sunshine o'er the unyielding tomb. 
What then would passion, what would reason, do? 
Sure, to retrace is worse than to pursue. 
Here will I sit till heaven shall cease to lour 
And happier Hesper bring the appointed hour. 
Gaze on the mingled waste of sky and sea. 
Think of my love, and bid her think of me. 



Retired this hour from wondering crowds 

And flower-fed poets swathed in clouds, 

Now the dull dust is blown away, 

lanthe, list to what I say. 

Verse is not always sure to please 

For lightness, readiness, and ease; 

Romantic ladies like it not 

Unless its steams are strong and hot 

As Melton-Mowbray stables when 

Ill-favoured frost comes back again. 

Tell me no more you feel a pride 

To be for ever at my side. 

To think your beauty will be read 

When all who pine for it are dead. 

I hate a pomp and a parade 

Of what should ever rest in shade; 

What not the slenderest ray should reach. 

Nor whispered breath of guarded speech : 

There even Memory should sit 

Absorbed, and almost doubting it. 



Clifton! in vain thy varied scenes invite, 
The mossy bank, dim glade, and dizzy hight; 
The sheep that, stsu^ing from the tufted thyme, 
Untune the distant church's mellow chime, 
As o'er each limb a gentle horror creeps. 
And shakes above our heads the craggy steeps. 
Pleasant I've thought it to pursue the rower 
While light and dsu'kness seize the changeful oar, 
The frolic Naiads drawing from below 
A net of silver round the black canoe. 
Now the last lonely solace must it be 
To watch pale evening brood o'er land and sea. 
Then join my friends and let those friends believe 
My cheeks are moisten'd by the dews of eve. 
What voice can charm us, or what view can cheer, 
Removed from her the restless heart holds dear? 
Ah, why then, self -tormentor, why removed? 
Say, thou who lovest, art thou not beloved? 
Resume thy courage, give thy sorrows o'er — 
Will not her bosom press thy bosom more? 
Her clasping arms around thy neck entwine, 
Her gentle hands be linkt again in thine? 
Will not her lips again their honied dews impart, 
And will not rapture swell her answering heart? 
Soon shall thy exile, and thy grief be closed. 
By whom but thee, for whom but her, imposed. 
Through seven days, imperfect, waste and wild, 
In seven days the whole creation smiled. 



Circe, who bore the diadem 

O'er every head we see, 
Pursued by thousands, turn'd from them 

And fill'd her cup for me. 

She seiz'd what little was design'd 
To catch a transient view; 

For thee alone she left behind 
The tender and the true. 



All tender thoughts that e'er possest 
The human brain or human breast, 

Centre in mine for thee . . 
Excepting one . . and that must thou 
Contribute: come, confer it now: 

Grateful I fain would be. 



Twelfth-Night 

I draw with trembling hand my doubtful lot; 
Yet where are Fortune's frowns if she frown not 

From whom I hope, from whom I fear, the kiss? 
O gentle Love ! if there be aught beyond 
That makes the bosom calm, but leaves it fond, 

O let her give me that, and take back this! 



If mutable is she I love, 

If rising doubts demand their place, 
I would adjure them not to move 

Beyond her fascinating face. 

Let it be question'd, while there flashes 
A liquid light of fleeting blue, 

Whether it leaves the eyes or lashes. 
Plays on the surface or peeps through. 

With every word let there appear 
So modest yet so sweet a smile. 

That he who hopes must gently fear. 
Who fears may fondly hope the while. 



A time will come when absence, grief, and years. 
Shall change the form and voice that please you 
now. 

When you perplext shall ask, "And fell my tears 
Into his bosom? breath'd I there my vow?" 

It must be so, lanthe ! but to think 

Malignant Fate should also threaten you, 

Would make my heart, now vainly buoyant, sink: 
Believe it not: 'Tis what I'll never do. 



"Remember you the guilty night," 

A dying myrtle said, 
"You snatcht and seized me pale with fright?" 

She paused; I bowed my head. 
"At every swell more close I prest 
With jealous care that lovely breast: 
Of every tender word afraid 
I cast a broader, deeper shade, 
And trembled so, I fell between 
Two angel-guards by you unseen. . 
Or else your hand had never dared 
To strip me from their holy ward. . 
There, pleasures, perils, all forgot, 
I clung and fainted , . who would not? 
Yet certainly, this transport over, 
I should, for who would not? recover. 
Yes ! I was destined to return 
And sip anew the crystal urn. 
Where, with four other sister sprays, 
I bloom'd away my pleasant days. 
But less and less, emd less again. 
Each day, hour, moment, is the pain 
My little shrivell'd heart endures. . 
Now can you say the seune for yours? 
I torn from her, and she from you, 
That wiser thing can either do, 
Than with oiu* joys our fears renounce 
And leave the vacant world at once? 
When she you fondly love must go. 

Your pangs will rise, but mine will cease. 
I never shall awake to woe. 

Nor you to happiness or peace." 



One pansy, one, she bore beneath her breast, 

A broad white ribbon held that psmsy tight. 
She waved about nor lookt upon the rest, 

Costly and rare ; on this she bent her sight. 
I watcht her raise it gently when it droopt; 

I knew she wisht to show it me; I knew 
She would I saw it rise, to lie unloopt 

Nearer its home, that tender heart! that true! 



You see the worst of love, but not the best, 
Nor will you know him till he comes your guest. 
Tho' yearly drops some feather from his sides, 
In the heart's temple his pure torch abides. 



She leads in solitude her youthful hours. 

Her nights are restless, her days are pain. 

O when will Health and Pleeisure come again, 
Adorn her brow and strew her path with flowers. 
And wandering wit relume the roseate bowers, 

And turn and trifle with his festive train? 
Grant me, O grant me this wish, ye heavenly 
Powers ! 

All other hope, all other wish, restrain. 






Have I, this moment, led thee from the beach 
Into the boat? now far beyond my reach! 
Stand there a little while, and wave once more 
That kerchief; but may none upon the shore 
Dare think the fond salute wJis meant for himi ! 
Dizzily on the plashing water swim 
My heavy eyes, and sometimes can attain 
Thy lovely form, which tears bear off again. 
In vain have they now ceast; it now is gone 
Too far for sight, and leaves me here alone. 

could I hear the creaking of the mast ! 

1 curst it present, I regret it past. 



lanthe! you are call'd to cross the sea! 

A path forbidden me ! 
Remember, while the Sun his blessing sheds 

Upon the mountain-heads. 
How often we have watcht him laying down 

His brow, and dropt own own 
Against each other's, auid how faint and short 

And sliding the support ! 
What will succeed it now? Mine is unblest, 

lanthe ! nor will rest 
But on the very thought that swells with pain. 

O bid me hope again ! 
O give me back what Earth, what (without you) 

Not Heaven itself can do. 
One of the golden days that we have past; 

And let it be my last! 
Or else the gift would be, however sweet, 

Fragile and incomplete. 



XXXVII 

The Lover 

Now thou art gone, tho' not gone iax. 

It seems that there are worlds between us; 

Shine here again, thou wandering stau*! 
Earth's planet ! and return with Venus. 

At times thou broughtest me thy light 
When restless sleep had gone away; 

At other times more blessed night 
Stole over, and prolonged thy stay. 



I often ask upon whose arm she leans, 

She whom I dearly love. 
And if she visit much the crowded scenes 

Where mimic passions move. 
There, mighty powers ! assert your just controul, 

Alarm her thoughtless breast. 
Breathe soft suspicion o'er her yielding soul, 

But never break its rest. 
O let some faithful lover, absent long, 

To sudden bliss return; 
Then Landor's name shall tremble from her tongue, 

Her cheek thro' tears shall bum. 



Page 
Eighteen 



I sadden while I view again 

Smiles that for me the Graces wreathed. 
Sure my last kiss those lips retain 

And breathe the very vow they breathed; 

At peace, in sorrow, far or near, 

Constant and fond she still would be. 

And absence should the more endear 
The sigh it only woke for me. 

Till the slow hours have paist away. 
Sweet image, bid my bosom rest. 

Vain hope! yet shalt thou night and day, 
Sweet image, to this heart be prest. 



Pleasure! why thus desert the heart 

In its spring-tide? 
I could have seen her, I could part. 

And but have sigh'd! 

O'er every youthful chaom to stray. 

To gaze, to touch . . 
Pleasure! why take so much away, 

Or give so much! 



Page 
Nineteen 



xli 

Here, ever since you went abroad, 
If there be change, no change I see, 

I only walk our wonted road. 
The road is only walkt by me. 

Yes ; I forgot ; a change there is ; 

Was it of that you bade me tell? 
I catch at times, at times I miss 

The sight, the tone, I know so well. 

Only two months since you stood here! 

Two shortest months ! then tell me why 
Voices are harsher than they were, 

And tears are longer ere they dry. 



xlii 

Along this coast I led the vacant Hours 

To the lone sunshine on the uneven strand, 
And nipt the stubborn grass and jucier flowers 

With one unconscious inobservant hand, 
While crept the other by degrees more near 

Until it rose the cherisht form around. 
And prest it closer, only that the ear 

Might lean, and deeper drink some half-heard 
sound. 



Page 
Twenty 



mtim 



xlili 

Pursuits ! alas, I now have none, 

But idling where were once pursuits, 
Often, all morning quite alone, 

I sit upon those twisted roots 
Which rise above the grass, and shield 

Our harebell, when the churlish year 
Catches her coming first afield, 

And she looks pale tho' spring is near; 
I chase the violets, that would hide 

Their little prudish heads away, 
And argue with the rills, that chide 

When we discover them at play. 



Page 
Twenty-one 



xliv 

As round the parting ray the busy motes 

In eddying circles play'd, 
Some little bird threw dull and broken notes 

Amid an elder's shade. 

My soul was tranquil as the scene around, 

lanthe at my side; 
Both leaning silent on the turfy mound, 

Lowly and soft and wide. 

I had not lookt, that evening, for the part 

One hand could disengage. 
To make her arms cling round me, with a start 

My bosom must assuage: 

Silence and soft inaction please as much 

Sometimes the stiller breast. 
Which passion now has thrill'd with milder touch 

And love in peace possest. 

"Hark! hear you not the nightingale?" I said, 

To strike her with surprise. 
"The nightingale?" she cried, and raised her head. 

And beam'd with brighter eyes. 

"Before you said 'twas he that piped above. 

At every thrilling swell 
He pleas'd me more and more; he sang of love 

So plaintively, so well." 

Where are ye, happy days, when every bird 

Pour'd love in every strain? 
Ye days, when true was every idle word. 

Return, return again! 



Page 

Tvventy-tw 



xlv 

Where alders rise up dark and dense 
But just behind the wayside fence, 
A stone there is in yonder nook 
Which once I borrow'd of the brook: 
You sate beside me on that stone, 
Rather (not much) too wide for one. 
Untoward stone ! and never quite 
(Tho' often very near it) right. 
And putting to sore shifts my wit 
To roll it out, then steady it, 
And then to prove that it must be 
Too hard for anyone but me. 
lanthe, haste! ere June declines 
We'll write upon it all these lines. 



xlvi 

lanthe' s Letter 

We will not argue, if you say 

My sorrows when I went away 
Were not for you alone; 

For there were many very dear, 

Altho' at dawn they came not near. 
As you did, yet who griev'd when I was gone. 
We will not argue (but why tell 

So false a tale?) that scarcely fell 
My tesu-s were mostly due. 

I can not think who told you so: 

I shed (about the rest I know 
Nothing at all) the first and last for you. 



Page 
Twenty-three 



xlvii 

You tell me I must come again 

Now buds and blooms appear: 
Ah ! never fell one word in vain 

Of yours on mortal ear. 
You say the birds are busy now 

In hedgerow, brake, and grove, 
And slant their eyes to find the bough 

That best conceals their love : 
How many warble from the spray ! 

How many on the wing! 
"Yet, yet," say you, "one voice away 

I miss the sound of spring." 
How little could that voice express. 

Beloved, when we met! 
But other sounds hath tenderness, 

Which neither shall forget. 



xlviii 

Thank Heaven, lanthe, once again 

Our hands and ardent lips shall meet. 

And Pleasure, to assert his reign, 

Scatter ten thousand kisses sweet: 

Then cease repeating while you mourn, 

"I wonder when he will return." 

Ah wherefore should you so admire 

The flowing words that fill my song, 

Why call them artless, yet require 

"Some promise from that tuneful tongue?" 

I doubt if heaven itself could part 

A tuneful tongue and tender heart. 



Page 
Twenty-four 



xlix 

Yes, we shall meet (I knew we should) again, 
And I am solaced now you tell me when. 
Joy sprung o'er sorrow as the morning broke, 
And, as I read the words, I thought you spoke. 
Altho' you bade it, yet to find how fast 
My spirits rose, how lightly grief flew past, 
I blush at every tear I have represt. 
And one is starting to reprove the rest. 



1 

Soon as lanthe's lip I prest. 

Thither my spirit wing'd its way: 

Ah, there the wanton would not rest! 
Ah, there the wanderer could not stay ! 



I held her hand, the pledge of bliss. 

Her hand that trembled and withdrew; 
She bent her head before my kiss . . 

My heart was sure that hers was true. 
Now I have told her I must part. 

She shakes my hand, she bids adieu. 
Nor shuns the kiss. Alas, my heart! 

Hers never was the heart for you. 



Silent, you say, I'm grown of late, 
Nor yield, as you do, to our fate? 
Ah ! that alone is truly pain 
Of which we never can complain. 



Page 
Twenty-five 



liii 

No, thou hast never griev'd, but I griev'd too; 
Smiled thou hast often when no smile of mine 
Could answer it. The sun himself can give 
But little colour to the desert sands. 



•liv 

My hopes retire; my wishes as before 
Struggle to find their resting-place in vain: 
The ebbing sea thus beats against the shore ; 
The shore repels it; it returns again. 



Iv 

Mine fall, and yet a tesu- of hers 

Would swell, not soothe their pain, 

Ah ! if she look but at these tears. 
They do not fall in vain. 



Ivi 

There are some tears we would not wish to dry, 

And some that sting before they drop and die. 

Ah ! well may be imagined of the two 

Which I would ask of Heaven may fall from you. 

Such, ere th lover sinks into the friend. 

On meeting cheeks in warm attraction blend. 



Mi 

While you, my love, are by, 
How fast the moments fly ! 

Yet who could wish them slower? 
Alas ! to think ere long 
Your converse and your song 

Can reach my ear no more. 

let the thought too rest 
Upon your gentle breast. 

Where many kind ones dwell; 
And then perhaps at least 

1 may partake a feast 

None e'er enjoy'd so well. 
Why runs in haste away 
Such music, day by day, 

When every little wave 
Of its melodious rill 
Would slake my thirst, until 

I quench it in the grave. 



Iviii 
Love's Secrets 

Poplar ! I will not write upon thy rind 

lanthe's cherisht name. 
Which it would grieve me should another find. 

And the same station claim. 

Ours, O lanthe, ours must never meet, 

Tho' here we tarry long. 
To hear the whisper of the leaves is sweet, 

And that bird's even-song. 

One sweeter I have bidden thee to check 

In fear of passer by. 
Who might have seen an arm about a neck; 

So timorous am I. 



Page 
Twenty-seven 



Lie, my fond heart at rest, 
She never can be ours. 

Why strike upon my breast 
The slowly passing hours? 

Ah! breathe not out the name! 

That fatal folly stay! 
Conceal the eternal flame. 

And tortured ne'er betray. 



You smiled, you spoke, and I believed. 
By every word and smile deceived. 
Another man would hope no more; 
Nor hope I what I hoped before: 
But let not this last wish be vain ; 
Deceive, deceive me once again ! 



Ixi 

I can not tell, not I, why she 
Awhile so gracious, now should be 
So grave : I can not tell you why 
The violet hangs its head awry. 
It shall be cull'd, it shall be worn, 
In spite of every sign of scorn. 
Dark look, and overhanging thorn. 



Ixii 

Ah! could I think there's nought of ill 
In what you do, and love you still! 
I have the power for only half. 
My wish: you know it, and you laugh. 



Ixiii 

To Love 

Where is my heart, perfidious boy- 
Give it, ah give it back again ! 

I ask no more for hours of joy. 

Lift but thy arm and burst my chain. 

"Fond man, the heeu-t we idly gave 
She prizes not, yet won't restore: 

She passes on from slave to slave. . 
Go to . . thy heart is thine no more." 



Ixiv 

Little it interests me how 
Some insolent usurper now 

Divides your narrow chair; 
Little heed I whose hand is placed 
(No, nor how far) around your waist, 

Or paddles in your hair. 

A time, a time there may have been 

(Ah! and there was) when every scene 

Was brightened by your eyes. 
And dare you ask what you have done? 
My answer, take it, is but one . . 

The weak have taught the wise. 



Ixv 

Bid my bosom cease to grieve, 

Bid these eyes fresh objects see, 
Where's the comfort to believe 

None would once have rival'd me? 
What, my freedom to receive? 

Broken hearts, are they the free? 
For another can I live 

If I may not live for thee? 



Page 
Twenty-n 



Page 
Thirty 



Ixvi 

So late removed from him she swore, 

With clasping arms and vows and tears, 

In life and death she would adore. 

While memory, fondness, bliss, endears. 

Can she forswear? can she forget? 

Strike, mighty Love! strike, Vengeance! Soft! 
Conscience must come and bring regret . . 

These let her feel ! . . nor these too oft! 



Ixvii 

fond, but fickle and untrue, 
lanthe take my last adieu. 

Your heart one day will ask you why 
You forced from me this farewell sigh. 
Have you not feign'd that friends reprove 
The mask of Friendship worn by Love? 
Feign'd, that they whisper'd you should be 
The same to others as to me? 
Ah ! little knew they what they said ! 
How would they blush to be obey'd! 

Too swiftly roU'd the wheels when last 
These woods and airy downs we past. 
Fain would we trace the winding path. 
And hardly wisht for blissful Bath. 
At every spring you caught my arm, 
And every pebble roU'd alarm. 
On me was turn'd that face divine, 
The view was on the right so fine: 

1 smiled . . those conscious eyes withdrew. . 
The left was now the finer view. 

Each trembled for dected wiles. 
And blushes tinged with fading smiles. 
But Love turns Terror into jest. . 
We laught, we kist, and we conf est. 
Laugh, kisses, confidence are past. 
And Loves goes too . . but goes the last. 



&^..;.»,ats.gs--;-^^».i8g^«-^ --v— --r^^^^i- -■ ..^fi^^^.^^-^--^-^ 



Ixviii 

Tears, and tears only, are these eyes that late 

In thine could contemplate 
Charms which, like stars, in swift succession rise 

No longer to these eyes ! 
Love shows the place he flew from; there, bereft 

Of motion. Grief is left. 



Ixix 

Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak 
Four not exempt from pride some future day. 

Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek 
Over my open volume you will say, 
'This man loved me!" then rise and trip away. 



Ixx 

Ask me not, a voice severe 

Tells me, for it gives me pain. 

Peace ! the hour, too sure, is near 
When I cam not ask again. 



Ixxi 

Heart' s-Ease 

There is a flower I wish to wear. 
But not until first worn by you . . 

Heart's-ease . . of all earth's flowers most rare; 
Bring it; and bring enough for two. 



Page 
Thirty-one 



Ixxii 

On the smooth brow and clustering hair 
Myrtle and rose! your wreath combine, 

The duller olive I would wear, 
Its constancy, its peace, be mine. 



Ixxiii 

There are some wishes that may start 
Nor cloud the brow nor sting the heart. 
Gladly then would I see how smiled 
One who now fondles with her child; 
How smiled she but six years ago, 
Herself a child or nearly so. 
Yes, let me bring before my sight 
The silken tresses chain'd up tight. 
The tiny fingers tipt with red 
By tossing up the strawberry-bed; 
Half-open lips, long violet eyes, 
A little rounder with surprise. 
And then (her chin against the knee) 
"Mamma! who can that stranger be? 
How grave the smile he smiles on me!" 



Ixxiv 

"Do you remember me? or are you proud?" 
Lightly advancing thro' her star-trimm'd crowd, 

lanthe said, and lookt into my eyes. 
"A yes, a yes, to both: for Memory 
Where you but once have been must ever be, 

And at your voice Pride from his throne must 



Ixxv 

Called Proud 

If I am proud, you surely know, 
lanthe! who has made me so, 
And only should condemn the pride 
That can arise from aught beside. 



Ixxvi 
To the Countess de Molande 

I wonder not that Youth remains 
With you, wherever else she flies : 

Where could she find such fair domains. 
Where bask beneath such sunny eyes? 



Ixxvii 

Years, many psu-ti-colour'd years, 

Some have crept on, and some have flown 
Since first before me fell those tears 

I never could see fall alone. 
Years, not so many, are to come, 

Years not so varied, when from you 
One more will fall : when, csuried home 

I see it not, nor hear adieu. 



Thirty-three 



Ixxviii 

Maria! I have said adieu, 
To one alone so fair as you; 
And she, beyond my hopes, at last 
Returns and tells me of the past; 
While happier for remembering well 
Am I to hear and she to tell. 
Whether gay Paris may again 
Admire you gayest of her train. 
Or, Love for pilot, you shall go 
Where Orellana's waters flow, 
And cull, amid Brazilian bowers. 
Of richer fruits and gaudier flowers ; 
Or on the Seine or on the Line 
Remember one command of mine: 
Love with as steady love as e'er 
Illumed the only breast so fair; 
That, in another year at most, 
Whether the Alps or sezts are crost, 
Something may scatter from the flame 
Fresh lustre o'er Pereira's name. 



Ixxix 

lanthe's Daughter 

To thee, Maria, now within thy tomb, 
God seem'd to promise many years to come. 
A gift beyond the rest to Him we owe. 
He left one image of thee here below. 



Page 
Thirty-four 



Ixxx 

Well I remember how you smiled 

To see me write your name upon 
The soft sea-sand . . O / what a child! 

You think you' re writing upon stone! 
I have since written what no tide 

Shall ever wash away, what men 
Unborn shall read o'er ocean wide 

And find lanthe's name again. 



Ixxxi 

To lanthe 

We once were happier ; true ; but were 

Our happiest hours devoid of care? 

Remains there nothing like the past, 

But calmer and less overcast 

By clouds no effort could dispel. 

And hopes we neither dared to tell? 

I wish that hand were earlier free 

Which Love should have preserved for me. 

Content, if sad, I must be now 

With what the sparing Fates allow, 

And feel, tho* once the hope seem'd vain, 

There may be love that feels no pain. 



Page 
Thii-ty-fivi 



Ixxxii 

A Dreamer's Tale 

Dreamer I ever was by night and day. 

Strange was the dream that on an upland bank 

My horse and I were station'd, and I saw 

By a late gleam of an October sun 

The windows of a house wherein abode 

One whom I loved, who loved me no less — 

And was she not drawn back? and came not forth 

Two manly forms which would impede her steps? 

I was too distant for them to discern 

My features, but they doubted: she retired; 

Was it into her chamber? did she weep? 

I did not know at that hour, but in the next 

Silently flowed tear after tear profuse. 

There are sweet flowers that only blow at night, 

And sweet tears are there bursting then alone. 

I tum'd the bridle back and rode away, 
Nor saw her more until a lossen'd bond 
Led her to find me a less happy man 
Than she had left me, little happy then. 
For hope had gone with her and not retum'd. 
She lookt into my eyes, fixt upon hers. 
And said "You are not cheerful, tho' you say 
How glad you are to see me here again. 
Is there a grievance? I have heard there is, 
And the false heart slips down and breaks the true; 
I come to catch it first; give it me back; 
Sweet fruit is no less sweet for being bruis'd." 

Thus at brief intervals she spake and sigh'd ; 
I sigh'd, too, but spake not: she then pursued, 
"Tell me, could it be you who came so far 
Over the sea to catch a glance at one 
You could not have? Rash creature! to incur 
Such danger! was it you? I often walkt 
Lonely and sad along that upland bank, 
Until the dew fell heavy on my shawl. 
And calls had reacht me more and more distinct, 
Ah me ! calls how less willingly obey 'd 
Than some I well remember not so loud." 



Ixxxiii 

No, my own love of other years ! 

No, it must never be. 
Much rests with you that yet endears, 

Alas! but what with me? 
Could those bright years o'er me revolve 

So gay, o'er you so fair, 
The pearl of life we would dissolve 

And each the cup might share. 
You show that truth can ne'er decay. 

Whatever fate befals; 
I, that the myrtle and the bay 

Shoot fresh on ruin'd walls. 



Ixxxiv 

To /. S, 

Many may yet recall the hours 
That saw thy lover's chosen flowers 
Nodding and dancing in the shade 
Thy dark and wavy tresses made : 
On many a brain is pictured yet 
Thy languid eye's dim violet, 
But who among them all foresaw 
How the sad snows that never thaw 
Upon that head one day should lie 
And love but glimmer from that eye. 



Ixxxv 

Dull is my verse: not even thou 

Who movest many cares away 
From this lone breast and weary brow, 

Canst make, as once, its fountain play; 
No, nor those gentle words that now 

Support my heart to hear thee say: 
'The bird upon its lonely bough 

Sings sweetest at the close of day." 



Ixxxvi 
To the Comtesse de Molande, about 
to Marry the Due de Luxembourg 

Say ye that years roll on and ne'er return? 
Say ye the Sun who leaves them all behind, 
Their great creator, can not bring one back 
With all his force, tho' he draw worlds around? 
Witness me, little streams that meet before 
My happy dwelling; witness Africo 
And Mensola! that ye have seen at once 
Twenty roll back, twenty as swift and bright 
As are your swiftest and your brightest waves, 
When the tall cypress o'er the Doccia 
Hurls from his inmost boughs the latent snow. 

Go, and go happy, light of my past days. 
Consoler of my present! thou whom Fate 
Alone could sever from me! One step higher 
Must yet be mounted, high as was the last: 
Friendship with faltering accent says "Depart, 
And take the highest seat below the crown'd." 



Ixxxvii 
To lanthe in Advancing Age 

The violets of thine eyes are faded, 
[Surviving] ill their radiant noon. 

Nor will thy steps move on unaided 
By friendly arm, a\as\ how soon. 

Well I remember whose it was 

They sought; no help they wanted then; 
Methinks I see the maidens pass 

In envy, and in worse the men. 



Page 
Thirty-eight 



Ixxxviii 

To lanthe Growing Old 

For me you wish you could retain 

The charms of youth ; the wish is vain, 

lanthe ! Let it now suffice 

To pick our way with weaker eyes : 

They cannot light it as of yore 

Where Pleasure's sparkling fount ran o'er. 

Time spares not Beauty, Love he spares. 

Who covers with his wing grey hairs. 



Ixxxix 

On the Death of lanthe 

I dare not trust my pen, it trembles so, 
It seems to feel a portion of my woe. 
And makes me credulous that trees and stones 
At mournful fates have utter'd mournful tones. 
While I look back again on days long past 
How gladly would I yours might be my last. 
Sad our first severance was, but sadder this. 
When death forbids one hour of mutual bliss. 



Page 
Thirty-nir 



The Death in Paris of Jane Sophia 
Countess de Molande 

Tears! are they tears indeed? 
And can the dead heart bleed? 
Suffering so long, so much, 
O heart ! I thought no touch 
Of pain could reach thee more! 
Alas ! the thought is o'er. 
I will wipe off the tear 
That falls not on her bier 
Who would have wept o'er mine. 
Ah me ! that form divine 
Above my reach must rest 
And make the blest more blest. 



June '51 

Versailles ! Versailles ! thou shalt not keep 
Her whom this heart yet holds most dear: 

In her own country she shall sleep ; 
Her epitaph be graven here. 



Mild is the parting yeeu-, and sweet 

The odour of the falling spray; 
Life passes on more rudely fleet, 

And balmless is its closing day. 
I wait its close, I court its gloom, 

But mourn that never must there fall 
Or on my breast or on my tomb 

The tear that would have sooth'd it all. 



I - -[iHiiiifliriiirriiiiiai ij-i uniiriiiiiiittniiiiiiit 



Notes 

The variations in spelling are Lander's; for he 
had his own theories about orthography. See his 
imaginary conversation between Archdeacon Hare 
and Landor in Last Fruit off an Old Tree. 

The following are the numbers in this edition of 
the poems addressed to lanthe published in Gebir, 
Count Julian, and other Poems, 1831: 



Present edition 
Ixiii 


1831 


Present edition 
xxii 


i 
Ixx 

xxviii 


xix 
xxii 


1 
xliv 

vii 
xxxi 


Ixv 
xl 


xiv 

xxvi 
xxvii 
xxviii 


xxyi 

li 
Ixvi 
Ixvii 



ii, iii — The reference is probably to Byron who used the name 

lanthe as a poetical name for Lady Ann Harley. Shelley 

named his daughter lanthe. 
Ixxviii, Ixxix — Maria, lanthe's daughter, married Chevalier 

Louis de Pereira Sodre, the Brazilian Minister at the Vatican, 

in 1835. She died in 1836. 
Ixxxvi — See account of lanthe in the Introduction. 



Page 
Forty-one 



Here endeth the Book of lanthe written by 
Walter Savage Landor and edited by Finley M. K. 
Foster and printed by The Craftsmen of Kells at 
their Shop at Newark Delaware on the tenth day 
of March in the Year of our Lord MDCCCCXXII. 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

IIIIHIIi 

014 525 675 6 



